The grand reception room is one of our best conference rooms. It overlooks the city—all the buildings, cars and energy, along with the San Gabriel mountains in the background when the smog isn’t too bad—but the view isn’t the only attraction.
Ivory leather seats, silver animal figurines with glittering crystal accents. A glass-top coffee table and elegant contemporary chandeliers in circular shapes. Glass cases with some of our most prized jewelry. The air has a whiff of our signature scent, which smells like buttery opulence and exclusivity without being cloying. I commissioned it when I took over the company, and now every Sebastian Jewelry location smells like luxury.
The room isn’t for holding meetings about boring business issues, but for welcoming people to Sebastian Jewelry and making them feel special. We reserve it for business partners and exceptionally important clients.
I enter the room and close the door firmly so nobody can overhear us. Mom is in an armchair, leaning against the back of the seat with a practiced casualness. Her elbows are propped on the armrests, and she hasn’t touched the steaming jasmine tea in front of her.
My mother is a carbon copy of Grandmother—the same hazel eyes, light brown hair and straight patrician nose. But unlike Grandmother, who favors pastel shades, Mom prefers to make a bolder statement. And today is no different. She’s in a scarlet dress I’ve never seen before, and it is, as usual, fashionable.
She’s crossed her legs, left over right. Her feet are in gold stilettos with heels so thin and high that they could serve as nails in a pinch, and her left foot bobs steadily.
To any casual observer, she looks calm, without a care in the world. But I know her too well. Mom always sits this way when she’s confronted with a problem she can’t handle on her own.
Shit.
But even if she weren’t flashing her tell, all the elation from the earlier town hall would’ve vanished, leaving nothing but cold dread. A long necklace made with three strings of brilliant-cut diamonds glitters around Mom’s throat, an heirloom piece she received from Grandmother after she had me. She always wears it when she wants to remind me of who and what I am—Sebastian Lasker, the dutiful son and heir apparent to Sebastian Jewelry. And she usually reminds me of that when she needs me to fix a mess my half-brother Preston made.
What the hell did he do now?
He’s never made it a secret that he resents me for kicking him out of the company after his third screwup. He can’t accept that keeping his incompetent ass on the payroll would be nothing but gross nepotism. He claimed I was being a greedy jerk who was jealous of him. Ludicrous, since it’s impossible to be jealous of somebody that inferior. He’s pissed he isn’t going to get the company, or the fortune attached to it. And without the gravy train from Sebastian Jewelry, he might actually have to get a real job—the horror!
He must’ve created a monumental fuck-up for Grandmother and Mom to cut their trip short. So. What did he do? Or did they have something to do with it? And to what purpose? They know he’s inept, even though they don’t want to acknowledge it.
I take the seat opposite Mom and put on a calm mask of my own. “What’s going on?” My voice is so steady, she’ll never know that what I really want to say is, “I’m going to murder Preston.”
“Oh, nothing. France became boring.” She smiles. “You know how it is.”
“Mom,” I say mildly. “I have a meeting soon.”
“All right.” She huffs a little. “There’s been a small incident.” Her eyes flick in my direction, then quickly drop to the tea in front of her.
“How small, exactly?”
No answer.
I force myself to be as still as possible, so I don’t betray the impatience and annoyance scraping at my nerves, while telling myself,I don’t yell at Mom. I don’t yell at Mom. I don’t yell at Mom…
She pulls her lips in briefly, and uncrosses then recrosses her legs.
I try not to sigh. “Well?”
“Darling, you know I love you—”
“Mom.”
She looks like a woman about to face a firing squad. “You’ll need to marry Lucienne Peery.”
“What?” I couldn’t be more stunned or outraged if she told me I needed to fornicate with a three-legged pig on national TV.
Lucienne Peery is the female version of my father, Ted Lasker, who apparently hasn’t ever heard of a scandal he didn’t want to emulate. The only difference is she’s from a jewelry family and he’s a movie producer. Also, she’s young and hasn’t had a chance to create seven children with seven different partners. But just give her time.
Her exploits are legendary. Men. Drugs. Parties. I don’t follow social gossip, and even I’ve heard about her numerous improprieties. I’m still not sure how she’s managed to avoid getting arrested for some of the stuff she’s done. On the other hand, she’s wealthy—the heiress to the Peery Diamonds fortune—so I suppose she has good professional and legal help. The reality is undoubtedly much worse than the gossip.
It’s vaguely disappointing. She seemed like a nice girl when I met her at her mother’s funeral seven years ago.
“It isn’t that bad. She’s a very pretty young woman. Prettier than when you last saw her,” Mom adds.
“She could be the goddess of beauty herself and I’d still say no.”
